


White Chocolate Raspberry

by WhiskeySoda



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Anal Sex, Body Worship, District 9 AU, Field soldier Jisung, Food Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Under cover stripper Minho, bitter sweet, cake stomp, foot worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 12:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14618658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiskeySoda/pseuds/WhiskeySoda
Summary: Jisung moves to slot his lips over Minho's, which are coated in lipgloss and begging to be kissed clean. Minho pulls back. Minho’s mouth curls into a smile as he speaks, and with it is implicit all the things that Minho withholds: information, sex, a whole white chocolate raspberry cheesecake. "You're not getting a piece of anything."As it just so happens, Jisung is starved.





	White Chocolate Raspberry

**Author's Note:**

> Um you're only allowed to leave me shitty comments if they're funny. So be creative morality police.

Jisung crosses the threshold of the rendezvous point, and his throat and chest tighten. The building should offer a protective shell from the outside world which sputters and coughs with pollution and corruption, but the club offers no respite. The room swathed with thick with purple green smoke, Jisung is desperate to shake the clouded hand which snakes around his throat and clenches hard.

 It doesn’t matter if he comes here once, twice, or a hundred times, contentment is difficult to find here. The thrum of the base makes his stomach churn. The electronic warble-trill of the music drags down his spine so hard that every hair on his arms stand up on end and warn him of a danger that he cannot see or identify.

Lights pulse on the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. Jisung parts the crowd, leverages his shoulders into scant spaces between patrons, and drags his feet forward when they become stuck to the alcohol stained floor.  After traversing the entirety of the club he works his way to the bar, and hefts himself up onto the third barstool from the left, just as he was instructed.

Jisung watches as the bartender struts towards in heels that shine neon green in the black light of the club. It should not shock him that she is naked save for a thin swath of cloth covering her crotch. Nor should it make his heart skip a beat when string is devoured by the soft flesh of her ass as she bends, cups his cheek, and whispers something that sounds like a request for a drink into his ear.

He’s been here dozens of times, and yet the lurid images affect him, because everything about this place is designed to choke out placidity and interject anxiety.

Jisung responds with words mushy and distorted something that he _intends_ to sound like “ _scotch”_ , just as his informant told him to. A full glass of smoky flavored scotch is poured for him. Jisung watches the large cubes of ice jostle in the glass, and liquid rolls dangerously from side to side threatening to spill over the edges.

 For a moment, Jisung prays to a god that he doesn’t believe in that he has enough credits on his card to cover all of the expenses that must be incurred in order to make the night forward. He traces the corners of the thin plastic card that rests in his pocket, and holds his breath. If everything went according to plan, Changbin has hacked into a generous account and loaded it with an amount that is more than adequate to cover the expenses incurred.

Jisung holds his breath, pulls the card, and allows his lips to touch the smooth rim of the glass. The liquid burns as it slides down his throat, and the fumes rise up into the space between his mouth and his nose and on the exhale his nose hairs burn.

Of course, the contact could give him any kind of code drink: a margarita, or a mai tai, or a blue Hawaiian with an extra cherry. But his contact is difficult, and loves to see him squirm.

Upon receipt of his drink, Jisung pivots in the barstool.  His eyes drift towards the stage elevated above the crowd and doused in cotton candy colored light. Looking past all the waitresses and waiters who pass by with neon colored cocktails Jisung finds his contact on stage.

It doesn’t matter if Jisung has seen this once, or a thousand times. Meeting _him_ always makes his mouth go dry. Control is ripped away from like it’s his very first mission.  The need to compensate makes him take another gulp of the horrific liquid. He can’t get drunk tonight due to the mission ahead. He can cut the edge and reduce the pressure of that strange thing that crawls down the collar of his shirt and settles at the base of his spine. Somewhere between the smoke and the bass, Jisung can find the courage to approach him as equals.

But until the smoke of the scotch is nurtured into flame in his gut, nerves make him shake. Jisung wipes his palms against his trousers as he watches a scene entirely of his Minho’s design unfold before him.

He takes the stage and wraps his thin fingers around a long metal pole. Although the music continues to thrum, and the chatter continues, Jisung swears he could hear a pin drop.

With his other hand the dancer sweeps his fingers across his hair pushing his bangs away from his face, commanding the attention of every person in the bar. Arching his back, he leans back and skims the crowd, surveying the bar upside-down, it’s less obvious when he skims the crowd and settles at the bar, looking for Jisung there.

As if the dancer gave permission to the sound booth, the beat drops and the dancer rolls his body against the pole. His legs are twisted around the pole as he climbs upward. Slowly, he arches his body backward and allows his torso to lie backwards. Suspended mid-air, the dancer shimmies out of his loose-fitting crop top. The lights shift to focus on flawless skin and pert brown nipples.

Once the shirt is removed, he grabs the pole with his hands, extends his body outward in a mid-air split and drops down onto the stage, legs splayed wide.

For a moment, Jisung forgets that he’s here on a mission. Of course, he doesn’t feel at home in the grime and the filth of the bar, but in a moment feels willing to endure the environment for another glimpse of Minho on stage. For a split second the purpose of the mission is cast aside, and his desire rises up in his body far louder than any thrum of the bass.   

“Can I get you anything else, Babe?” The bartender rasps into his ear.  “Cheesecake,” Jisung responds, for a split second doubting the code word. “I want cheesecake.”

“You got it babe,” she responds with the rest of the code phrase, “one cheesecake with a cherry on top.”

* * *

Upon placing his order, Jisung is escorted down a long, mirrored corridor. From every angle he catches glimpses of his reflection. From each direction waves of judgement wash over him, not from the hostess that leads him down the hall way, or the dancers that brush past, but from himself. It’s not the circumstances in which they meet, or his profession. No, it’s the fact that it is a matter of when, not if. How long will it take until Jisung compromises _everything_ for _him?_

Tonight, Jisung is led to the Raspberry Room, and its features are far too familiar to him. The whole room is bathed in rich raspberry colored light that trickles up the walls, distorts colors, and reminds Jisung of blood. A stage similar to, but much smaller than the one in the main lobby, occupies one corner. A large, circular bed sits on the platform in the middle. 

He’d sit on the bed if he weren’t afraid of falling asleep. Jisung has been out in the field thirty-six hours, but _he_ would never forgive him for that.

Instead, Jisung opts to go to the window, pull back the curtains, and drink in the neon light of the city. As his eyes dart from skyscraper to lighted skyscraper, he has to wonder where all the rest are right now, Chan, Changbin, Hyunjin. 

Jisung wants to look cool when he walks in the door. Posed in the windowsill he must look pensive as thinks about all sorts of heavy things. Are they doing the right thing? Will he live to see twenty? And if he does, would it be worth it after all that he’s done?  

He’s a brooding mess of a man, and those kinds of guys are _definitely cool._ Jisung puffs out his chest and inflates himself with faux confidence, only to find that that a pinprick hole has already worked its way inside of his ego and begun to let the air out.

“I was worried you weren’t coming tonight.” The sound of his voice alone sends an electric shiver down his spine.

When he turns on his heel to greet Minho, his breath is taken away once again. Minho has changed into little more than a sheer white-pink colored teddy which is washed out by the burgundy glow of the room. The fabric dips low exposing the ridge of his collar bones, the skirt barely covering the round curve of his bottom. The implication of what comes next makes his mouth go dry.

To sweeten the deal, Minho holds a small cheesecake balanced on a white china plate. For all their faults collective faults as a team, Minho as a person, is perfect.

“Minho,” Jisung breathes.

Jisung never imagined that falling in love would be like this. Growing up, he was the son of a wealthy man. As a privileged child, he had access to books that were forbidden. Continuously indulged and never denied a thing, he consumed them voraciously. Through repeated readings, and quiet comfort within those passages, Jisung ached for something he never experienced. The soft blush of someone’s cheeks when his beloved’s fingertips brushed against the palm of his hand, was something he dreamed of daily.

The sharp sound of a partner sucking in air and the warm feeling of the breath against one’s own lips signified the raw vulnerability in that single moment before a first kiss. For so long, he imagined it with great clarity.

The way that the sun shines on eyelashes, and makes them seem translucent when eyes are closed, can only be seen when look upon someone special in their most private of moments.

All of these scenes played in his mind’s eye, over and over and over again for years.

Jisung never imagined that falling in love would be like this. Somewhere between the neon lights, and alcohol sticky counters, he still finds time to feel Minho’s breath against his lips, listen to the sound of Minho drawing in air, and kiss the fluorescent glare off of Minho’s eyelids.

That’s all that matters he supposes.

“Well you’re here but you still haven’t come. We should fix that”

Even though their love is far from what he imagined, he knows that it’s real. This feeling that time stands still, this illusion that they aren’t in a seedy brothel in New Dongdaemun, is caused by Minho’s arched brow, and freely given smile. Impish, and curious it is one of the few things in this place that cannot be purchased.

He knows that it’s real, because he knows how much Minho’s time is worth, and he knows how much things like dairy and sugar cost.

Jisung abandons his perch at the windowsill and closes the distance between himself and Minho, one hand flying to his waist, the other reaching for the food. Because if they’re speaking in terms of food that _isn’t_ bland rations, or sex that _isn’t_ furiously jerking off in his bunk while listening to Seungmin as he does the same…

He’s not hungry, he’s starved.

As he moves to slot his lips over Minho’s, which are coated in thick sticky lip gloss and begging to be kissed clean, Minho pulls back. “Ah-ah-ah.”

In that moment, they’re not teammates. They’re back to square one. Jisung’s barely eighteen again, flanked by his father, and members of his father’s company as they “treat” him to a night of debauchery at a high end escort service. That night when he met Minho, his father’s money burned hole in his pocket as he looked on scared and enraptured. Maybe he never stopped feeling that way, even when he sat in a darkened room with both Chan and Minho, and signed it all away for a cause he barely knew.

“You’re not getting a piece of _anything,”_ and Minho’s mouth curls into a smile as he speaks, and with it is implicit all the things that Minho withholds: information, sex, food. “Until I show you my new trick.”  

If he weren’t so beguiled he’d demand the information first, and make sure that all the risk was really worth it. Team over self.

Instead, he allows Minho to put his hand on his shoulder and push him down onto the black marble floor.

“Get on your knees,” and it’s a command that Minho utters, not a request.

* * *

 

When he first met Jisung, he always thought that he had a kind, round face…The kind that would certainly be mistaken for gullible whenever his father decided to turn him out into the world. He thought about it enough to _consider_ voicing these concerns to Chan, but never did. Minho’s foolish desire to rip Jisung away from _everything_ that he considered black and ugly about this world and keep him for himself was too strong.

_Now_ , he sees the perfect soldier of his own design. A demon in the field, Jisung is charismatic enough to blend into almost every situation he’s thrown into. In a few years those fleeting moments that Jisung feels, crawling skin and butterflies in his stomach will disappear completely. Then he’ll be lethal.

For now? Minho will revel in every fleeting moment that he’s allowed to have the upper hand. After all, Jisung takes orders from his superior officers so well.

Minho has him kneel on the floor facing the bed. 

 And like a good soldier he awaits further orders, and asks for clarification so as to best carry out his job. “Can I touch?”

“In a minute,” Minho teases. He sets the plate upon the floor with a clink. Jisung’s eyes go wide, and sight makes Minho smile. It’s a far cry from the thick sultry expressions that he pours out of a bottle and smears on his face before he goes on stage, and the real smile almost feels strange crawling across his face.

Minho sits upon the bed, satin duvet smoothing across the skin that isn’t covered in mesh and lace. “When I tell you it’s okay.” He spreads his legs wide, showing Jisung _everything_ covered in thin white lace, and it’s got to look damn good because he’s already hard thinking about how good he’s going to make it for Jisung. 

Does Jisung, wide eyed and slack jawed, know that it takes every ounce of control that he’s got to not jump him then and there?

Does he know that Minho puts effort into it, and doesn’t bank on Jisung being satisfied just because he exists? With clients there’s a working assumption that it’s enough to shake his ass and drop to his knees, but never with Jisung. With Jisung, Minho _always_ tries harder despite the fact that when they met seven months ago Jisung came in his hand after a few pumps. That’s how he knows that it’s real.

Minho pulls the hem of the night gown upward, rucking it up around his thighs, raising his knee high, and lowering his foot down painfully slowly. “Jisung,” Minho teases, “Breathe baby,” but it’s more for himself than it is for Jisung.

“Minho,” Jisung speaks as if he already knows the answer to the question he asks. “What are you doing?”

“What is that saying?” He asks this with his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as the ball of his foot comes into contact with dense cream cheese. “Something about…” Minho allows his voice to trail off as he continues to apply pressure, the sides of the cake buckle. Filling oozes between his toes and covers the ball of his feet. “Having your cake?”

For a moment, the only sound that can be heard between them is the high-pitched sound of Jisung sucking in breath, and the obscene squelching noise of Minho’s feet sticking and smearing the decimated cheese cake.

“You like it right?” All Minho wants is to make him happy.  

“Yes,” Jisung responds after a long silence, as if he suddenly remembered that he was expected to speak. “When can I?” Jisung reaches to cup the back of his calf. Minho cannot see the detail for the colored light, but he can only assume that the skin on Jisung’s cheeks are flushed. What he can see, regardless of the harsh lighting, is the outline of the bulge of Jisung’s cock through his jeans. It’s a beautiful sight when combined with the way his eyes are blown wide. Jisung is beyond trying to process what’s going on and just _goes_ with it. Minho loves that about him the most. He makes no specific requests, and acts so grateful for everything.

The anticipation is mutual, and that’s how Minho knows that it’s real. The anticipation is mutual, and it has never _disappeared._ Of course, there are always clients that are good looking. There are clients that he’d like to come back…until the gravity of _what kind of person_ came back settled in and drained it all away. Minho wants, just as much, if not more than Jisung wants.

Minho, not content to indulge Jisung just yet, pulls his feet away. “Oh, you want a taste babe?” Minho raises his feet from the sticky ruined mess and spreads his toes wide in display for Jisung. No sooner than he displays his feet for Jisung, he smashes them back down into the mess on the plate, smearing everything once again.

“Minho please.” The whisper soft touch of Jisung’s finger tips never leave his calf, yet Jisung never makes a move to interrupt him.

That’s how Minho knows that it’s real. Although protocol dictates that Minho be paid, Jisung isn’t a real client. Jisung never feels as if he’s entitled to anything.

“You have been very patient,” Minho agrees. “Undress me.”

What does Jisung, round faced, and kind spirited do? He rises up on his knees and kisses him full on the lips. Although it would be almost impossible to tell him this, because it’s exactly the kind of thing he teases Jisung for, he’s wanted _this_ more than anything. Warm breath, and the sweet little moan that Jisung makes into his mouth, are things that he thinks about when strangers crawl on top of him. The place where the protective hand splayed across the small of Minho’s back burns when Jisung is gone. The feeling of short clipped nails scratching lightly at the place where lace teddy meets the strained fabric of his thong is something that he dreams about when the sun is high in the sky and he’s trying to sleep before the sun sets once again.

That’s how he knows that it’s real.

* * *

 

Minho still isn’t finished teasing him, and its fine now, so long as Jisung gets to touch him. Minho can tease him to the point of being cruel if he wants, so long as Jisung gets to show him with his body what he can’t say with words _just yet_. All Jisung wants is to remind him that every minute that they spend apart, Minho should miss him too. Because someday, missions and intelligence be damned, he’ll walk into the club with all of the confidence that Minho used on him and they’ll leave the dingy club together for _forever._

Now? He kisses Minho and lets him know just how badly he’s missed him. Drags his tongue against his lower lip, and retreats making Minho chase him. Parts his lips with his tongue, and kisses with assertion, not aggression, just like Minho taught him.

When they part with an audible smack, Jisung doesn’t want to stop. Yet, he knows there’s so much more ahead.  Jisung loops a finger underneath the thin waistband of Minho’s panties and pulls them downward. Minho braces himself on the bed, and cants his hips upward so that Jisung can free his cock.

Minho kicks the underwear to the side, intentionally missing the crushed mess of cheesecake on the floor.

Carefully, Jisung lifts the hem of Minho’s teddy upward, and upward to reveal fluttering stomach, and dusky nipples. In that moment it isn’t a question of whether or not Minho knows how badly he teases him. Instead, it becomes a question Jisung asks of himself.  How badly does Minho tease himself when he does things like this?

Skin flushed red, nipples hard, and cock straining and red, Minho puts himself through so much just to get a reaction out of him.

And that’s got to count for something right?

To show his appreciation, Jisung kisses at the tip of Minho’s cock lapping at the precum pooled there.

“Naughty Jisung,” Minho all but purrs.

“You want it.” Jisung locks eyes with Minho, gives him a smile, and for a brief and shining second control is wrestled away from Minho and shines in spit dampened skin of his lips.  

“Eat your treat Jisung.” Just like that, Minho wrestles it away once again.

Jisung takes Minho’s ankle in his palm once again and hopes that Minho cannot feel the way that his hands shake. Of course, he worries that he looks likes the least sexy person on earth as he moves to lick Minho’s feet.

But he wants to so badly.  Spurned on by Minho’s smile, and the twitch of Minho’s cock in his peripheral vision, Jisung licks a long stripe from the ball of Minho’s feet to the tip of his big toe. Graham cracker crust has mingled with cream cheese filling. The flavor of sweet and tangy cheesecake comingles with the taste of Minho’s clean skin. “White chocolate raspberry?”

“Yeah,” Minho laughs. “Just like that place in Old Gangnam right?”

“Bell’s Bakery?” Jisung shakes his head. “Better,” Jisung all but moans, taking Minho’s second and third toes into his mouth and licking them clean. “So much better Minho,” he murmurs repeating the action on his fourth and fifth toes. 

Jisung pulls back for a moment, and locks eyes with Minho. His eyes are half-lidded, and he’s wearing a lopsided grin that differs so much from every other expression Minho’s ever shown him. This is something private and vulnerable. Jisung would believe that Minho were simply indulging him, if genuine happiness didn’t radiate from Minho warm like the sun.  

Moving onto Minho’s left foot, Jisung takes Minho’s other big toe into his mouth completely and rolls his tongue across the underside before moving onto the soft webbing between his toes licking the space clean.

“Tickles,” Minho laughs, pulling his toe out of Jisung’s mouth with a pop.

“Feels good?” Jisung chases Minho’s other toes, licking every inch of his skin clean. There’s something wholly hypnotic about watching his toes go from messy to clean. It’s embarrassing really, how much he oves the way that small bits of filling get stuck in the little wrinkles of Minho’s toes, but it gives him silent permission to linger in those places a little longer.

“Yeah,” Minho breathes.

When Minho’s feet are clean, Jisung lingers, bathing his tongue over soft skin while waiting patiently for further instruction. Minho always has further instruction.

“You’ve been so good Jisung,” Minho hums as fingers press into Jisung’s jawline and tilt his head upward. In that single gesture, another order is given and permission is granted. Minho’s lips brush against Jisung’s once again. Graceless and disjointed, Minho’s control slips ever so slightly. Their teeth clink, and the kiss goes on for so long that their lips bruise like fruit left to crush under its own sweet weight.

Minho’s adroit fingers push back his jacket and tear at his shirt. Jisung fumbles for his belt and it’s undone with a _clink_.  Minho reaches for the button, rips his pants open, and shucks them downward. When Minho _finally_ gets him naked, time stands still for a moment.

The scant inches between himself and Minho may as well be miles, and although he’s seen his naked body dozens of times, had him naked in this room now for the better part of an hour, everything looks new.

Minho’s chest rises and falls in time with his own haggard breaths. His eyelids are heavy, looking upon him with an expression that cannot be described as anything other than want.

Free from his own clothes, Jisung’s cock twitches as if he hadn’t realized just how tight his clothes were until Minho pulled them off.

Just as quickly as time slows to a standstill, Minho jams it forward. “Get on the bed Jisung.”

And Jisung does as he’s told. The duvet is warm from the heat of Minho’s body, but fire rains down upon him when Minho straddles his waist.

Usually, Minho is willing to indulge him. He allows Jisung to work him open slowly with his fingers, and his tongue, and the toys that Minho keeps.

Today, Minho has already given so much. It’s no surprise when Minho slides down on Jisung’s cock already stretched, hole slick with lube. It’s no surprise, but it always feels _so_ good when Minho’s patience disappears and all that’s left from Minho is the same kind graceless need Jisung wears for him upon his sleeve.

That’s how he knows it’s real.

Enveloped in warmth and wet, and consumed by the urgency that comes only from being separated for so long, Jisung bites his lip so hard that stars of bright white light crackle and shine on the lids of his eyes.

“You’re cute when you’re like that,” Minho’s voice is layered, wrapped in contradictions, equal parts husky and silken. He leans forward, and the heat disappears from around Jisung’s cock as he hovers at the tip and refuses to sink back down.

“Like what?”

“Trying so hard not to cum,” Minho says as kisses are peppered across Jisung’s open mouth and his jawline.

“So do you,” Jisung forces his eyes open, and all he can see is the warmth in Minho’s eyes and the curve of Minho’s smile. Reaching for Minho’s cock he pumps him once, twice, until Minho’s eyes screw shut and he sinks back down on Jisung’s cock.

Minho rides him now earnestly and without abandon, raising and sinking himself on Jisung’s cock over and over again. Jisung watches in rapt fascination as Miho becomes lost in the movement.

Minho closes his eyes shut, and throws his head back. Jisung is hypnotized by the ripple of his stomach, and the way that the tendons in his neck clench and move beneath the skin.

When they’re together, Minho is free not only to give but to take. He can take pleasure in Jisung’s body. He can revel in the way that Jisung rolls his hips to rise up against the wave of Minho’s hips. Jisung thinks that’s amazing.

“You feel _really_ big.”

“Feels good?” It’s his favorite thing to ask Minho.  Jisung punctuates the question by grabbing Minho’s hips hard enough that he knows faint purple red fingertips will be left in the wake of his touch. He grinds into Minho, and finds the answer in the way that his eyes flutter open wide.

“Really good,” he says with a love drunk roll of his neck and nod of his head.

In that moment, Jisung decides that faint bruises on Minho’s hips are not enough. If Minho shows this for him, and only him, he wants everyone else to know. Jisung examines the faint bruises that dot the chords of Minho’s neck. The faint marks that are supposed to be hidden by the raspberry colored light are made visible to him only due to knowledge of Minho’s body, and looking for the sake of feeling angry.

For Minho, no, that’s just not true…For himself, Jisung tightens his grasp on Minho’s hips. Jisung sits up, and pushes Minho downward onto the bed. It’s awkward and unskilled in comparison to Minho’s graceful movements. But he absolutely _must_ give Minho a fraction of what he’s given him.

 

* * *

Jisung is sweet. Real sweet, like the candies and the cake Minho works his ass off to get for him. It’s why he likes him so much. Jisung is sweet, and all Minho ever wants to do is make it up to Jisung since he dragged him down into this mess. All Jisung ever wants to do is belligerently proclaim that he’s grateful for it.

It hurts when Jisung flips them over, and he thrusts in _hard_ in one fluid motion. It hurts him much more when Jisung’s expression falls and his lips quiver at the sight of his pain. Because Jisung is so sweet.

“I’m sorry,” Jisung says this as he stays buried deep inside of Minho. Minho doesn’t fault him for being too swept up in pleasure, or uncertain of what to do. “Minho, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Minho breathes, and does his best shake the discomfort from his expression. “Just a little sore.” The rest of the explanation dries on his tongue. Jisung looks at him like he’s something fragile and worth protection, and even though he _knows_ that’s why it’s real it makes his own stomach twist in knots.

“God, Minho I-“

“It’s okay,” and Minho rolls his hips against him just to let him know how okay it is. “It’s so okay Jisung.”

Jisung readjusts their positions once more, pushing Minho’s legs close to his chest. Jisung threads their fingers together, as he does his very best to not support too much of his body weight on Minho’s hands. “If it hurts too much, just squeeze real hard. Okay?”

“Okay.” Their lips brush together while Jisung builds the rhythm back slow and steady like they were never interrupted. Jisung hits just the right spot, over, and over, and over, as he kisses the juncture of his neck and mouths at the lobe of his ears. All of Jisiung’s love, and all of Jisung’s attention make Minho feel like every inch of his body is teeming with a furious energy that _must_ be expressed.

Of course, Minho had this grand plan. Minho was gonna ride Jisung so good that he came deep inside of him. Of course, Jisung comes in and wrecks it all with smiles and words that are dually saccharine sweet and sustaining. No sooner than he gets lost in Jisung’s rhythm and swept up in the way that Jisung feels inside of him, Jisung is wrapping his fist around his cock and pumping him relentlessly.

When Jisung cums, he keeps going, thrusting furiously and giving him every bit of himself that he can, until he makes sure that Minho is spilling into his hand.

From Minho’s mouth spills words that should not be said. “I love you.” These kinds of things are unavoidable. They’re real, and they’re dangerous, but he says them anyway. “I love you Jisung.”

* * *

 

 

“If you end up hitting Chulsoon Kim, you’re gonna be up against at least,” Minho pauses and sucks in air. Jisung can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he does so.

For a moment, all Jisung can do is close his eyes and focus on the sound of Minho’s voice, and the sensation of his nails scratching against his scalp. Right now, he doesn’t feel the pinprick sensation that he gets whenever he visits Minho at the club. He’s here with Minho, and Minho is peace.

“Hey, pay attention. This is valuable information, and believe it or not Chan doesn’t just send you here so you’ll settle down and pay attention during strategy meetings.”

“Hm,” Jisung barely manages to respond.

“You’re gonna be up at least four, maybe more I.N. units. He’s got a _lot_ of them. The hyper paranoid type, you’re not going to get in with any of the typical infiltration techniques, so make sure you tell Woojin-“ except every word that Minho speaks sounds distant and displaced.

“Listen!” and a sharp needle like pain spreads across his nipple as Minho pinches him. Jisung kicks his feet and turns away from Minho. He’s not ready yet. Not ready to be burdened with the details, even if it’s the entire reason he was sent here.

Minho rises from the bed, and through half-lidded eyes Jisung watches him walk to the bar near the stage, his movements languid and cat like. Minho presses several buttons upon the drink dispenser, and the rich scent of coffee fills the room. “Listen to me Jisung. If it were me, I’d go with some kind of undercover operation. Stage at the social club, or his office.”

Minho lifts the lid on a crystal container, revealing a small mound of sugar cubes. Jisung’s eyes snap open, and his mouth immediately waters at the sight. He _knows_ just how much sugar costs, but he has no idea when he’s going to get it again. Minho puts two into the coffee and stirs with a long silver stick.

“More,” Jisung orders.

Minho complies adding two more.

“ _More,”_ Jisung follows it up quickly with, “please.”  

Minho adds two more cubes, pours a generous helping of cream into the cup, and brings him the hot ceramic mug.

Jisung accepts it, and for a moment simply allows the heat from the mug to spread across his fingertips and his palm. Then, he speaks once more. “When you say paranoid…You mean like guards, traps?”

“From what I gathered from the data stick I _borrowed,”_ Minho climbs into bed next to him. Between his fingers a cup of herbal tea steams.  “Everything. It’s gonna be tight.”

“Okay,” Jisung swallows thickly, and just like that he accepts it. No use in dwelling on the uncertainty or the _what ifs_ when things inevitably go wrong. “Minho,” Jisung swallows thickly. He asks this every time whenever they’re together.

Each time the answer is the same, regardless of context. “Come with me. Ask for an extraction.”

* * *

 

“I meant what I said, Jisung.” It’s gone silent between them for a very long time, and he can’t believe that the words, husky and reluctant, fall from his lips so freely. In the wake of Jisung’s impossible request, it would be so easy to brush off those three little words as something said in the heat of the moment.

Yet it bothers him that Jisung has yet to reciprocate when Minho _knows_ that he feels the same way.

Minho does his best to not be annoyed at the way Jisung just barely perks up from another nod on the cusp of sleep.

“I had this big grand plan Minho,” Jisung mumbles sleepily.

Minho takes the half empty cup from Jisung’s fingers, takes a sip of the too sweet coffee, winces, and sets it on the nightstand. Threading their fingers together, he realizes there’s nothing left to hide behind. The smoke, mirrors, and performance have all run dry. He’s laid bare for Jisung, because Jisung likes him that way.

“I wasn’t going to tell you I loved you until you came with me. Left this place for forever.”

Minho traces the lines of Jisung’s palm silently waiting for Jisung to speak his mind. 

“But that might not happen for awhile huh?” Jisung goes on.

Immediately, Minho recognizes the uncharacteristically graceless statement from Jisung as what it is: simultaneously accepting and rhetorical.

“I guess we need you here. So I should just say it right?” It happens with everyone of course, the sudden all or nothing feeling when you realize that you’re working on borrowed time. So frequently is it accompanied by the frantic need to make every moment count. Now, Jisung and Minho are in the throes of it together. “I love you too.”

And even though Minho didn’t need to hear it to know that it’s real, it still sounds so good.

 

**Author's Note:**

> da mf moderated comment zone.


End file.
